


Days of Emptiness

by Vrazdova



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Fanart, M/M, POV First Person, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-16
Updated: 2009-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-26 22:05:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vrazdova/pseuds/Vrazdova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Scandinavians act a little differently behind closed doors... [Illustrated]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days of Emptiness

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2009 as a gift for pixiestixgirl on Livejournal. Story and illustration by me.
> 
> It's basically just porn.

I love him.

I’ve told him a couple times.  But then he always tells me to shut up.  _Don’t even say it_ , I can imagine him scolding.  Sometimes, though, it’s hard to control my tongue when my emotions take control of my rationale.

Then in response or reprimand, he’ll kiss me hard, pushing his tongue into my mouth, sometimes grazing his teeth against my lip – sometimes it hurts – and I’ll be left with so little room to breathe that I couldn’t possibly voice any more foolish confessions.  But it just makes me love him even more, and I’m sure he knows it.  This is how he wants it to be – this is how it _has_ to be – and if I have to be constantly driven mad with lust and passion then so be it.  Better this than nothing at all.

We don’t speak of our relationship.  Neither of us is the type to ever sit down and discuss the future.  What’s there to discuss anyway?  Our “normal” lives are even lived out day to day – it doesn’t matter that we have a manager to run everything behind the scenes and ensure everything flows smoothly – as far as _any_ of us is concerned, the only thing certain is the present.

Maybe that’s what makes it so exciting when he pushes me into a closet or an empty bathroom completely unexpectedly, and we instantly transform into something so different from what the world knows us as.  Hands and lips exploring each other feverishly; fingers running through hair; bite marks and bruises forming unabashedly, knowing they can be covered with makeup later.  At these moments, there is no band; there is no fame or publicity.  Just the two of us in the dark, sweating and panting and tasting each other’s vulnerability.

I would say this is the “real” us, but what everyone else sees – our public faces – that’s real too.  The bickering, the rivalry; it’s all real.  We couldn’t keep it up day after day if we had to fake it – no one could.  But that’s half of what I love about him.  He’s perfect in his imperfections.  Alluring in the way he infuriates me.  And when we’ve fought long enough is when he grabs me and pins me against a wall, and I just melt into his arms with every frenzied kiss he leaves on my neck and collarbone.  It’s passion that drives our actions towards each other, no matter what form it takes.

If we didn’t have to maintain our public faces, I don’t believe our relationship would be so violent.  It’s the pressure of remaining hidden that keeps us fighting, and that fighting is what drives us to take wild pleasure in digging our nails into each other’s backs and pulling each other’s hair.  It’s as though all of it is foreplay, being dragged out for several tantalizing days, before we can take it no longer and we tear into each other in some dark, hidden corner of the Haus.  Maybe someday, when our band gives up its place in the spotlight, we can settle down.  For now, this forbidden chase continues indefinitely.

Sex doesn’t just happen after a long fight, however.  He loves to come into my dressing room right before a show and give me a tease.  He’ll sneak in and crawl under the vanity counter and surprise me with a slow massage between my legs.  Another favorite of his is to straddle me as I’m trying to apply my stage makeup, giving me a lap dance of sorts.  And then, after teasing me quite long enough to inspire my throbbing arousal, he’ll skip off with a wink and a wave.  I’ve gotten yelled at a few times for having sloppy corpse paint, but it’s worth it for the reward I always get _after_ the show…  Before the parties get into full swing, he finds me and we sneak off to satisfy the carnal lust that burns through every rhythm and solo.

Despite the pleasure and satisfaction we get from each other… we can’t be exclusive to each other.  Not yet.  I’ll be the first to confess that it hurts and that everything is shallow compared to being with him, but no one’s asked.  Sleeping with groupies has come to be expected of us over the years, and the fact that somewhere along the road we began sleeping with each other can’t change that so easily.  And _yes_ , he does bring women home too.  Not as often as I am known to do, but I glare and sneer at his guests as much as he does towards mine.  All the more reason to fight.  All the more reason to seek real, raw pleasure with each other at the end of the day behind a forgotten door somewhere.

Just as hunger makes a meal more satisfying, it’s as if all the superficial sex makes our lovemaking more pleasurable.  Of course, I’d rather it not have to be this way, but it’s something optimistic to hold on to.

I’m not even sure what brought us together in the first place, or how we discovered this lust was something greater.  I guess we just filled the empty space in each other’s lives.  We allow one another to let our guard down in a way that we are never able with strangers.

If anyone saw how I acted with him, my reputation would be ruined.  If they witnessed how he acted with me, no one would believe it.

With him, I don’t have to be the showman.  I love letting him take control of me, and I know he loves being the leader for a change.  When he gets that ravenous look in his eyes, I can’t help but open myself up to him, exposing my soul and my skin and letting his fearsome strength overtake my biting words.  He throws me against a wall, neither of us caring if it hurts me, and he tears at my clothing.  Free of my shirt, I writhe between his smooth body and the rough texture of the wall, taking pleasure in the contrast and tangling my hair in a nest of fingers above my head.  He sucks on my earlobe and nips at the skin on my neck, causing me to moan not unlike the women I bring to my bed…  But he’s the only one to have ever made me produce such sounds myself.

He presses his pelvis up against mine and grinds into me, leaning in to steal my breath.  The most aggressive I’ll dare to be at this point is to respond to his tongue with my own.  His hands are greedy, wanting to be everywhere at once – gripping the roots of my hair, teasing my nipples, tracing my hipbones down past the hem of my pants.  He hesitates a moment to caress my erection through the grey denim and I shudder and sigh and melt even more.  Then my belt is unbuckled and he’s easing the fabric down my thighs.

He likes to recognize my vulnerability by staying clothed himself for a few minutes as he continues to touch and kiss me.  He runs his hands up and down my chest, straying lower each time, just barely brushing by my most sensitive areas and causing me to jump.  As I’m distracted, he stealthily slides down and gives me a quick lick and a kiss and neither of us care about how loudly my sudden pleasure echoes around the tiny room.  _We dare you to find us_ , I feel like we’re saying.  _We’re sick of hiding._

Finally, he undresses and I wait, bracing myself against the wall, weak-kneed and chest heaving.  When he comes back to me he does so with great force, bringing our bodies together so quickly a gasp escapes my lips.  The feel of his arousal pressed against my skin drives me wild, inspiring me to steal a feverish kiss.  He responds.  We entangle ourselves in each other so passionately it’s like it’s either our first or last time together.

Then he pushes me down to my knees and I take him into my mouth hungrily.  He grasps my hair, but the dynamic threatens to shift as he elicits the same helplessly ecstatic moans he’d inspired in me just moments earlier.  As I run my tongue along his length, I feel myself respond just as he does.  The slippery, sweet taste that greets my mouth sends a new wave of passion throughout my body.

Soon he pulls me back up and his strength returns.  I feel his hands slide around my thighs, spreading my legs and hoisting my feet off the ground.  I throw my arms around his neck and brace myself for him to enter me.

It’s such an extreme mix of pleasure and pain, and it’s so very familiar by this time.  Being taken in this position – not properly prepared, his muscular arms gripping me too tightly, the rough wall scraping my back – seems so appropriate for our relationship.  It’s crude, it’s difficult, and it brings tears to my eyes.  I can feel the thin flesh covering my spine being grated away.  But then I focus on the sensation of his thrusting my cries aloud are caused by ecstasy alone.

We’re both building to orgasm quickly, and I censor myself by burying my face in his neck and shoulder, muffling my panting breaths and the eventual climactic outburst that comes before his.  He fills me and releases me, and then we both have trouble standing.  Laughing gently, I catch him as we sink to the stone floor.

I brush away the hairs that cling to his sweaty forehead.  It’s difficult to see much, as the only light around is what spills in from the crack at the bottom of the door.  Only then do I notice what a small space we’re lying in.

I long to be lying next to him in my bed.  But somehow, that white fur cover seems tainted, kind of like the white dress of an unfaithful bride-to-be.  We need to get rid of something before we can truly have each other, but that thing is yet too famous and powerful to go away.  I briefly think about how amazing it would be for the end of…

“I love you,” I whisper, in perfect English.

He places a finger over my lips.  “Don’t even say it,” he responds with just as much articulation.

 _We have to be patient_ , says the lingering voice in both of our minds.

* * *

Later, as we all linger in the common room, each preoccupied with his own distractions, I begin to feel bold.  Or maybe it’s desperation.  He’s sitting next to me on the couch, playing a game, and I’ve been picking at my guitar.  The TV is blaring; empty beer bottles, drunk out of boredom, litter the ground.  I steal glances in his direction, but he is absorbed in the game in his hands.

My guitar lowers to the floor.  I lean towards him and gently take his chin in my hand.  He responds to my kiss – not a lusty, fevered kiss, but one where our lips just revel in the way they fit together so perfectly.  Eyes closed, my fingers woven into his smooth, brown hair, we hold this position for what seems like hours.  When we break, his cheeks are full of color and he smiles with his eyes.

My heart is pounding.  _This is it_ , I think.  We’re no longer hiding.

But nobody saw.

Everything continues in the way it always has.  My impatient heart has to wait a little longer.


End file.
